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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24210646">The Stamplers Visit the Westrock Cemetery</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Gen, This was written post ep 33, Willy Stampler is His Own Warning, also there are allusions to child neglect/ child abuse, but just in case, but they are not detailed or explicit, only like vaguely alluded to, so spoilers for up until then</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:14:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24210646</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Stampler family takes a trip to the local cemetery.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ron Stampler &amp; Terry Jr., Ron Stampler/ Samantha Stampler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>114</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Stamplers Visit the Westrock Cemetery</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Terry Jr. hated Mondays.</p><p>Or to be more specific, Terry hated the third Monday of every other month.  He used to just hate the third Monday of every month (or if he’s being totally honest every day of every month).  </p><p>But now Terry had just decided to compromise and hate Mondays in general.</p><p>He felt his pant leg tug as a gust of wind blew across the cemetery.  Moldy leaves flitted through rows of headstones, and fat grey clouds rolled overhead.  </p><p>As Terry looked down at the woman sitting cross-legged to his side, his gaze was pulled toward a headstone comparatively smoother than its neighbors.  Or at least Terry could have sworn that it had been on their last trip.  When had the edges started to look so jagged?  And had that thin line cutting across the grave’s left side always been there?</p><p>The more he stared down at it, the more chips and cracks seeped into his vision.  The woman opened one eye and tilted her head up at him.  Leaning back, she lifted her elbow and gently poked his left shin.</p><p>“TJ, honey,” Samantha asked.  “Could you grab the lighter for me?”</p><p>Terry opened his mouth to say “sure” but his throat tightened, so he just gave a stiff nod and crouched down to grab his mother’s purse.  He opened one of the smaller pockets and dug around until he felt cheap plastic wrapped in worn cotton.  </p><p>“Here,” he mumbled, pulling out the limited edition Winnie-the-Pooh pocket lighter.  Involuntarily he felt the corner of his mouth twitch.  “Isn't it a safety hazard or something to wrap a lighter in literally one of the most flammable things known to man?”</p><p>“Oh, TJ.”  Samantha smiled and reached back to grab it without looking. “Without the fabric, how would the fire stay warm in the first place?”</p><p>While Terry wanted nothing more than to retread this familiar ground, as they had been doing for each third Monday of every other month, something about how long it had been since their last visit stopped him.  </p><p>Maybe it was that he’d spent way more time away from the cemetery than his mother; After all, in the three days that she had waited for Terry to return from the soccer tournament, he had been fighting for nearly half a year just to make it back in one piece.  Add on top of that how he and Samantha hadn’t come here in the month before the soccer tournament trip… Had it really been seven months since he’d last seen his own father’s grave?</p><p>He grimaced and hunched back over the purse to close it, but the zipper seemed to have other plans as it snagged on the surrounding zebra print.  Terry tugged harder, letting out a muffled grunt.  As he leaned down to assess the situation, a cool, if slightly damp, hand covered his own.  </p><p>Samantha hummed as she gently squeezed his knuckles, and Terry felt his eyes grow heavy.</p><p>He really hated Mondays.</p><p>Terry felt something wet hit his forehead and turned his head up to the clouds overcast.  Samantha followed suit and held her hand out for a moment.  Turning back to the grave, she lit the lighter.</p><p>“Could you go grab Ron?”  She asked, lighting a few incense candles.  Terry felt an instinctive frown cross his face before quickly smoothing it out.</p><p>“Sure.”  Terry forced himself to stand up and look at the name etched into the stone.  He managed to make it through the first three letters before it got hard to see. </p><p>Shit.  When had this become so hard again?  He had always thought that recalling memories when his dad was still there would be the hardest thing to deal with.  Somehow though, thinking about moments like this, where he wasn't there, managed to be even more difficult. </p><p>It was like there was a hole inside of him and Samantha and everyone who ever loved his dad, and every day his father’s voice seemed to echo out of that hole a bit softer, ringing for a single moment less.  It was where his father’s face seemed to blur a bit more with each passing day that Terry Jr. was in the present and Terry Sr. was in the past. </p><p>The absolutely worst part though was that Terry knew the memories which would hurt most were yet to come.</p><p>Learning how to drive.  Learning how to tie a tie.  Learning how to shave and deal with rejection and a thousand other small things.  Having his dad at graduation.  Looking into a crowd of hundreds of other faces and knowing he’d be staring right back, pride on his face at his boy becoming a man.</p><p>Terry Sr. haunted him not in his memories of the past, but in his knowledge of the future. </p><p>Stupid fucking heart attack.</p><p>He heard rustling and saw his mother pull out a bright red umbrella.  She had finished lighting the candles a couple of minutes ago, and now she just stared into the distance.  Maybe, Terry realized, he wasn’t the only one who had been away for too long.</p><p>“It’s starting to rain.  I’ll meet you at the gates with the car.”</p><p>Terry nodded and turned away.  He paused for a moment and said a short prayer himself.  As he headed down the path that led to the original part of the cemetery, his neck grew stiff from the effort it took to keep looking ahead.</p><p>---</p><p>Samantha tapped the limited collector’s edition Winne-the-Pooh lighter to her chin as she sat on her late husband’s grave and thought about lunch.</p><p>They had all ended up staying later than planned, so maybe it would be better to stop by the local diner to eat a light meal?  Or maybe they should just drive straight home and reheat something there.  How long had the pasta been left in the fridge, anyway?  She hummed and rubbed the fuzzy bear head end of the lighter against her cheek.</p><p>Samantha paused.  Then she lifted it up to her nose and inhaled.  She smiled.  Despite all these years, the abomination still smelled of retro pawn shop and spilled overseas cologne.  Samantha frowned.  Where had Terry Sr. imported it from again?  Argentina or Colombia?</p><p>As she pondered this, Samantha felt something tap her head.  Oh right, she thought.  The Storm.  Hadn’t there been some warning this morning for heavy showers in the late afternoon?  Taking one last whiff of the lighter, she shoved it back into her purse and looked around.</p><p>Maybe the Westrock Lion’s Diner was still open.</p><p>Before Samantha rose from the concrete, she paused and lifted two fingers to her lips.  Then she reached out and then pressed them into the name engraved on the headstone.  Standing slowly, she stretched, feeling a tingle in her legs as the blood rushed back into them.  Turning side to side, she twisted until she felt some of the vertebrae in her spine pop.</p><p>A few graves away stood a woman and two small children.  The group didn't even seem to notice her, lost in a headstone of their own with clean edges and an unblemished surface.  Samantha watched as a strong gust of wind blew across the yard and the woman’s head snapped up.  The mother, she presumed, leaned down toward her boys and placed a hand on each of their shoulders.  She could hear the woman vaguely tell them something about ‘being late,’ but the taller one just kept wriggling out of her grasp while the smaller one clung to her raincoat.</p><p>Samantha smiled and thought of when Terry Jr. had spent weeks clinging to her leg.  Though, she reflected, hopefully that little boy had less of a traumatic reason than Terry had as to be so clingy.</p><p>One time, after she and her ‘Terries’ had first moved to Westrock, her baby boy had accidentally fallen into a goose nest hidden next to the community’s lake.  She’d been recording Terry Jr. take his first steps, but neither she nor Terry Sr. could have guessed just how far and fast he’d be able to go.  </p><p>“Really,” Terry Sr. had joked months later, “I should have assumed that my name wasn't the only thing the little Ter’ would be taking from me.”</p><p>Of course, the moment Terry Jr. had started getting close to the water Terry Sr. had begun to head over, but once the toddler’s head disappeared into the wildflowers he immediately dashed in pursuit.  Long story short, quite a few geese had been punched that day, and her boys hadn't come out of the brawl totally unharmed either.  Thankfully no one was seriously injured, and while back then it hadn’t been that funny, with time (and dozens of rewatches) the event seemed to garner more laughs every time that it was mentioned.</p><p>Or at least that had been the case until seven months and three years ago, when all it took was a day to destroy nearly a decade’s worth of funny memories.  Samantha frowned.  Had it been seven or eight months?  She closed her eyes.  The breeze continued to swell and her jacket flapped wildly in the wind.</p><p>A lot had changed that day.  It had taken two minutes to call 911, twelve minutes for the ambulance to arrive, and five minutes for the medics to tell her that she was a widow.  It had only taken half a minute to tell Terry that he didn’t have a father anymore, however those thirty seconds eclipsed all fifteen years of her marriage to Terry Sr.  It then took one year and eleven months before she let out the first real, gut-wrenching laugh she’d had in a long time, which had occurred two minutes into meeting Ron Stampler.</p><p>Samantha sighed as she turned to walk back to the parking lot.  In hindsight, maybe she shouldn’t have waited three months before introducing Terry to Ron, or only spent ten months dating before getting eloped and moving her and Terry into Ron’s house.  On paper, her plan had seemed fine.  Once Ron had officially become her husband and Terry Jr.'s step-father, Terry would know that Ron wasn’t going anywhere, something that couldn't have been said for the first couple of dates she’d gone out with.</p><p>The few men she’d pushed herself to go meet up with typically discovered by the third date that Samantha was so much more just some ‘hot chick’ they could fool around with.  All she had to do was mention Terry Jr. or pull out her lighter, and poof: they’d vanish into thin air.  </p><p>So when Ron had learned she’d had a son and wondered ‘when he’d get the chance to meet him,’ or when she pulled out the lighter and he immediately asked to pet it’s one-eared head, Samantha had felt more and more like she had finally met someone who would stick around.  Someone who could be a harbor to her seas, whether it was a calm day or stormy night.  Someone who could love her for her everything, ranging from the part of her that loved collecting discontinued disney lighters, to the part of her that would forever be buried with her late husband, and to the most important part of her: her son, Terry Jr.</p><p>What Samantha hadn’t considered was Terry’s intense rejection of Ron and everything that he was.  Or maybe, it was more a rejection of everything that he wasn’t.</p><p>While Samantha loved Ron for his odd kindness and general obtuseness, it was clear that he hadn’t been there for Terry in the way he wanted, not that Terry would ever admit it.  Whenever it seemed like they were about to connect, Ron always managed to ruin the moment.  The fact that Terry Sr. and Ron were like night and day also hadn’t helped.  They differed in everything from personality to appearance, which probably only exacerbated Terry’s certainty that Ron would never be able to fill the shoes that walked before him.</p><p>Samantha had talked to Ron about it a few times before, saying that she knew he could find his own pair of shoes to wear.   She truly believed that if they only let each other in, they’d find something real true there.  After all, Ron’s father had also died when he was around Terry’s age, so her boys already had some level of understanding that few other people could even begin to comprehend.  </p><p>Others like her.</p><p>As Samantha walked lost in thought, she felt her left cheek warm.  Glancing up, she winced and raised her hand to block the light streaming down.  The clouds had briefly parted and a thin strip of sunlight managed to slip out.  The wind pushed clouds forward to cover the gap, but in the process it also pulled some clouds apart, so the light kept spilling down in scattered pieces.</p><p>They all just needed time, Samantha thought to herself as shadows drifted over the cemetery.  </p><p>It would have been easy, almost soothing, to give in to the doubts that encircled her mind.  However, if there was anything Samantha had learned since that day seven months and three years ago, it was that skepticism and despair did not help her trudge through the moments of pain and loss.</p><p>No, what had allowed her to make it through was simply the stubborn refusal to give in to the doubt and worries that had then plagued her every waking moment.  It was hope that had given her enough strength to get through each and every day.</p><p>Samantha eventually reached the tall, rusted gates that marked the entrance to the parking lot.  She reached into her purse and felt around for the key to Ron’s mini cooper.  Her pinky grazed the lighter.  It was beginning to rain more heavily now, but that was okay.</p><p>Rainy days only made home fries drizzled in maple syrup taste even sweeter.</p><p>---</p><p>The wind whipped Terry Jr. along the trail as he headed to find his stepfather.  He shivered a bit and shoved his hands into his hoodie.  While that helped with the cold, the feeling of his clammy fingers brushing against one another made him frown.  </p><p>He just couldn’t win today.</p><p>As he walked, the ground beneath him softened as bricks gave way to dirt.  Deep into the cemetery, Terry side-stepped small streams and puddles that had formed in the dips between the grave-riddled hillsides.  When he and Samantha had first come to the Westrock Cemetery, they’d only been aware of the piece of flat land which extended for miles and miles.  Later he learned it was actually the new addition to the cemetery.</p><p>As Terry crossed from the expansion into the original area, it felt like he was stepping into another world entirely.  </p><p>In the new section, he thought the cemetery had a pretty amiable vibe for a place where people came to mourn their loved ones.  The grass was cut on a regular basis, and sometimes people would bring pots to put flowers into, so when Terry came it felt like he was staring out at a sea of green with pops of color purposely scattered here and there.  Even the graves looked pristine due to the occasional cleaning given to them whenever some teen (who needed community services hours) stopped by.  </p><p>The same could not have been said for the rest of the place.  Weeds consumed the older part of the graveyard due to a lack of maintenance, exploding in any available space they could find.  Headstones of every size and shape were placed around the area in a seemingly random arrangement.  Some were clustered together on small hill tops while others stood alone in the spaces between them.  When Terry stopped to look around for other people (not because the sudden change in scenery had bothered him or anything, he was just looking around for his stepfather of course), he noticed that some of the headstones had been so covered in chunks of thick moss that their names were utterly illegible. </p><p>Terry tried to recall the one early morning when he’d come alone to see the place where they had decided his father would rest.  His mother had offered to go with him days before, but he had just wrapped the blankets around his ears tighter.  That day he’d ended up wandering around every grave except the one that he had gone to see in the first place.</p><p>Near a small pond, Terry had overheard some of the groundskeepers complaining about what a pain it was to clean the original sections.  Apparently when it rained, some of the less fortunately deceased who were laid in the spaces between the hills paid the price.  One of the groundskeepers had kept swearing that he’d found an arm sticking out of a puddle some morning after a particularly heavy downpour.  The other worker had just laughed and said he should've taken a picture instead of immediately running away.</p><p>As he rounded another corner, walking between mounds of earth stuffed with the dead, Terry swore that no matter where he stepped, he could feel the dirt dragging his sneakers deeper and deeper into the ground.  Then, as the path curved up and over an almost empty hillside, Terry felt himself slow to a stop.</p><p>Right on the hill where the path ended, a short man wearing a kilt stood in front of a lone grave.  As the fabric flapped in the wind, revealing a single, hairy leg, any remaining doubt Terry had as to who the man was dissipated.</p><p>“Hey, Dad.”  Terry called out. </p><p>Ron jumped a little then twisted around, revealing a big bouquet of pink flowers in his right hand.  </p><p>“Oh,” he said.  Making a sound that could be (and had been) mistaken for a chipmunk being thrown into a wood chipper, but that Terry knew to be a laugh, Ron raised the bouquet. “Hi, Terry, didn't see you coming.”</p><p>He was still deciding whether to tell Ron that the response would actually be ‘didn’t hear you coming,’ or to just skip it entirely and tell him that it was time to go, when he noticed something sitting on the grave.  Terry looked down to see a shiny blue vase, then back up to the pink flowers in Ron’s hand, and whatever he was going to say died on his lips.</p><p>He couldn't be at the grave that Terry thought he was at.</p><p>Technically, Terry had been here once before, but he hadn't actually seen what name had been carved into the grave.  There'd been one visit a few months after Ron and his mom had gotten married when his new stepfather had asked if he could tag along with them to the Westrock cemetery.  He’d felt like throwing up at the prospect of Ron seeing his father's grave for a reason he still couldn't name, but all his worry had been over nothing because when they passed through the gates, Ron had just nodded to them once and set off down a totally different path.</p><p>However, Ron had left his phone in the car, so Samantha had asked Terry to track him down and let him know they were leaving.  He had been especially not in the mood that day when he went to retrieve his new stepfather, so when he had arrived at the same spot he stood now, instead of approaching, he’d just loudly told Ron that they were leaving with or without him and turned right back around.</p><p>At the time Terry really hadn't cared whose name had been written on that headstone.  He’d already spent all his tears on his own father’s name  and couldn't have given a care in the world about which one of Ron’s dead relatives had their name inscribed onto the yellowed rock before him.</p><p>Now it was all he could think about.</p><p>It could be a long lost sibling or some childhood friend, Terry reminded himself.  Maybe it was even his mother.  He walked up a bit more until he could read the name chipped into the stone.</p><p>Willy Stampler</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>He could feel himself shiver and blamed it on the strong breeze that swept through the cemetery.  As he hunched over, he caught Ron shifting in the corner of his eye.</p><p>“Terry, do you- uh, do you want my coat?”</p><p>He moved the bouquet to the crook of his arm and began to unzip his jacket.</p><p>“Oh.”  Terry blinked a few times as he stood back and removed his hands from his hoodie.  “I’m good,” he said, holding one of them up.  As the wind picked up around them, he fumbled around his back pocket for the umbrella. </p><p>The arm that Ron was moving out of his sleeve paused, frozen in the air.</p><p>“Are you sure?  Because I don’t mind you know, you’ve been looking kind of cold and you really shouldn’t only be wearing a hoodie-”</p><p>An old flare of indignation rose in his chest. </p><p>“Yeah, no.”  Terry replied in an exasperated tone that he knew the conversation didn't really merit.  “I’m sure.”</p><p>A wince flashed briefly across his stepfather’s face before Ron pulled his sleeve back over his arm, and just like that all the energy simmering beneath his skin disappeared.</p><p>Terry felt his face heat up.  “It’s fine.”  He looked down at his feet.  “I really appreciate the offer.  Thank you.”</p><p>He thought back to a time when that flame had burned in his chest for days on end.  It had more or less eaten at him constantly in the year following Terry Sr.'s death, but gradually it seemed to fade away bit by bit.  </p><p>Or at least it had until Ron barrelled into his life and turned it upside down again.  He was overbearing yet passive, clingy yet distant, unreadably, yet predictably, disappointing.  Something about everything he did had rubbed Terry the wrong way.</p><p>In hindsight, Terry reflects, it wasn’t that all those things weren’t exactly true, but somewhere along the way those traits had stopped bothering him quite as much as they once had.</p><p>The fact that they had to escape literal death together over and over on what all the families had decided to label the ‘Soccer Tournament Detour,’ which Nick affectionately called the ‘ultimate STD’ between the two of them, had probably somewhat factored into Terry’s sudden chillness with his new dad (though you didn't hear that from him.)</p><p>Despite how much Ron screwed up in the past, and certainly would continue to do so in the future, Terry gradually came to conclude he also had one or maybe even two good qualities in him.  The intense exasperation that stretched across Terry’s skin sometimes when Ron talked was something he still found himself having to work through despite how far they had both come.  </p><p>Old habits die hard, he guessed, but they did die eventually.</p><p>Terry’s gaze drifted back towards the name carved into the grave.  What he didn’t get was how this man supposedly buried here had any qualities that Ron could possibly mourn.</p><p>Everything he had heard about and directly from the man himself made it clear to Terry that Willy Stampler wasn't a man but a monster.  And it wasn’t even like Faerun’s magic had corrupted him: Oh no, from what little Ron had said, even from day one he had thrived on holding power over anything- or anyone- within his grasp.</p><p>The more Terry stared at the name, the louder his heartbeat throbbed in his ears.  To his side, he heard a rustle of plastic and felt Ron’s arm brush against his as he rearranged the bouquet in his arms.</p><p>His stepfather opened his mouth then closed it.  After a moment, he opened it again, but Terry couldn’t help himself and interrupted him with the question that had been ringing through his head.</p><p>“How can yo- Why do you come here?”  Terry rephrased mid sentence.  His free hand came up to clench his hair as his eyebrows scrunched together.  “And bring him flowers?”</p><p>Ron’s mouth hung open for a while before snapping shut.  He turned his head toward his stepson for a second before sighing and looking back into the distance.  Terry felt something hit his neck as the clouds tore open above them.  Remembering the umbrella, he grabbed it from his pocket and extended it awkwardly out to the side, nearly clipping the headstone as it swung open.  Terry held it over himself before noticing that Ron hadn’t moved, then scooted closer until it covered both of them.</p><p>Bathed in red light from the umbrella, Terry was about to apologize and suggest they leave when Ron cleared his throat.</p><p>“For the same reason that you do, kiddo.” </p><p>He swallowed.</p><p>“I miss my dad.”</p><p>---</p><p>The water that ran through Westrock liked to think that it was the small town’s most active and personable member.  After all, out of everyone in the community, it was the only one that had managed to personally meet every other inhabitant within the area.</p><p>It greeted them on rainy days, clinging tightly to their hair and clothes as they walked hurriedly from building to building.  After it fell, the water would empty into the sewers beneath the town, where it would flow through the tunnels’ twists and turns until pouring into the Westrock Wastewater treatment plant.  From there, the water would be filtered out and then sent back into the county.  This gave it a second chance to know its community even better, only this time, rather than sneaking in through leaky roof tops, it came in each home’s faucets and pipes.</p><p>The water that ran through Westrock knew each person who lived there in every way possible.  However, this had been especially true for a boy named Ron F. Stampler. </p><p>Rain poured over the streets as a car drove back from the Westrock Hospital’s maternity ward, returning to a house with paint still drying on its walls.  As the car parked in the garage, there was a sense of hope which filled every part of the vehicle’s interior.  A feeling that this time, this change, would be the one that finally created a different path for the family to walk upon.</p><p>However, just like the Westrock water flowed clean from the treatment plant’s filters, only to be reused in people’s sinks, tubs, and toilets, this feeling was nothing more than a momentary state.  This cycle, alongside the water’s own, would repeat itself for years and years to come within the Stampler household.</p><p>---</p><p>The boy who stared out of the house’s window was aware of the Westrock water in a way not many other four year olds were.  He listened to it, for it, through long nights, as it drowned out muffled voices and slamming doors.  When the sky was clear, and the blankets and Walkman hidden under his pillow weren’t enough, the boy felt the water’s absence </p><p>The boy didn’t just see the water either, he also watched it.  He’d spend hours staring out at the rain as it hit the glass.  The biggest drops always seemed to win, but every once in a while a small one would manage to reach the bottom of the window pane against all other odds.  Of course, the outcome depended entirely on whether a big drop of water was present or not.</p><p>Little droplets never won against big droplets, after all.</p><p>The boy was watching the raindrops race along his window pane one early morning when he felt the floor reverberate as the front door slammed shut.  Together, the rain and the Walkman were enough to drown out the sound of a car’s door slam shut and an engine rev to life.  They weren’t able to block the flash of headlights, though, as a car pulled out of the driveway.  </p><p>As the light that flooded his room faded just as quickly as it had appeared, Ron sat up.</p><p>He didn’t move an inch, not even after his Walkman ran out of tracks to play, or his blanket started to get moist with sweat, or when he heard the steps outside his room creak.</p><p>Ron just watched the rain, remaining still as he heard an exasperated sigh to his right and felt a hand on his shoulder.  The bed creaked under his father’s weight as he sat down, his stiff shoulders and clenched jaw silhouetted by the light that spilled in from the hallway.  </p><p>As Willy turned to look at him, Ron froze.  He tried to not slide into the dent his father had made in the mattress.  Pursing his lips and letting out an annoyed sigh, and with a delicacy that Ron had only seen him handle fishing gear with, Willy tugged the Walkman off his head. </p><p>As his father told him that it’d just be the two of them now, and that they didn’t need a harlot around anyway, Ron watched the rain.  Every once in a while, his body slid down a little and so he scooted away.  Several moments passed before he heard a long exhale and felt Willy pull him to his side.</p><p>His father kept talking about a hundred things he had heard before in muffled tones through closed doors, but all he could hear was the rain and sound of his own heartbeat.  All he could focus on was how his father was so big and warm.  How the arm wrapped around his shoulders was so strong and close to his neck.  </p><p>Staring beyond the water that streamed down his window, Ron looked out into the neighborhood.  Torrents of water poured over roofs and streets and yards and cars.  Gales of wind howled as they shook the trees of their leaves and tore small signs from the grass.  Lightning crackled across the sky every now and then, illuminating everything in sight and rattling the ceiling fan above his bed.</p><p>Ron stared out at the storm and thought of his father.</p><p>“I’m not going anywhere.”  Willy told him that night, but only three decades later and a world away would Ron realize how true that declaration really was.</p><p>---</p><p>The water that ran through Westrock continued to run through the Stampler household as the years went by.  </p><p>It dripped through a hole in the roof as Ron crept into the attic.  There, in front of an old mirror with a name that held no significance to him scribbled in the corner, Ron would spend hours tying and untying a poorly made windsor knot.  </p><p>(This skill would only come to him in his college years, when his roommate showed him how to do it correctly with an exasperated sigh.)</p><p>It ran through the kitchen, filling up pots and pans which were then placed on top of the stove.  There, Ron would use it to boil store-brand mac and cheese for far past the box’s recommended time limit.  </p><p>(He always ended up using more water than was necessary for a one-person meal, but it never hurt to prepare for a dinner of two, right?)</p><p>It’s arguably most important role, however, was when Ron poured it into plastic trays and placed it in the freezer.  There, the water would turn to ice, which was useful for fixing ‘real drinks,’ among other things.  </p><p>On an unrelated note, the water also was used in the load of laundry where Ron turned all of Willy’s business shirts pink.</p><p>(He needed to make a lot more ice after that.)</p><p>Some of the water eventually drained out of the Stampler household and back to the Californian sea where Willy occasionally brought him to fish.  Each time the car traveled along the coast, an achingly familiar feeling (one that had been present in the same car over a decade ago) seemed to sprout again in Ron’s heart.  A feeling that one catch would change his life.  And it had.</p><p>The water that ran through Westrock had been there on that day, surrounding the fishing boat and reflecting a cloudless sky, when it happened.  It stayed alongside the boy whose name it had come to learn so well through their years of quiet companionship.  There, the water remained a silent witness of what was coming.</p><p>A splash.</p><p>In the silence that followed, the water looked on.  Reflected in its surface, the boy looked down into the sea, leaning forward on the guardrail.  He stared on, expecting to see a man paddling with his arms and cursing how his prey had gotten away.  But there was nothing there but a few tiny bubbles.</p><p>(If Ron had squinted, maybe he would've seen that the water surrounding him was a shade darker than it had been before, mixing in with the inky tendrils that rippled out from the boat beneath him.  But he didn’t.  He was too busy calling out for a person no longer there.)</p><p>(Weeks later Ron would be walking along the shore when a wave of water much darker than it should have been would wash onto the sand, encircling his ankles.  However, all he would be able to focus on was the shiny, squid-shaped lure that the tide brought in with it.)</p><p>---</p><p>The lure now burned in Ron’s front pocket as the water that ran through Westrock fell over the cemetery and onto the red umbrella of the Stampler household’s current residents.</p><p>---</p><p>To say that Terry Jr. hated Mondays might not have been entirely correct.  More than anything, he was tired of them.  Of going through the same old motions when he knew each visit would only bring a longing for someone who wasn’t there.  </p><p>Sure, sometimes that feeling would arrive as a red hot spike to his chest, while at other times it would come in the form of a numb ache which lasted for days, but it would appear all the same.  Even if Terry could never completely prepare for what kind of pain Mondays would bring him, he always knew it was coming. </p><p>And Terry knew that inevitable feeling of loss would exist because Terry Sr. had given him something to miss in the first place.</p><p>His kindness.  His playfulness.  His love.  </p><p>So for Ron to imply that they came for the same reason?  For him to insinuate that Terry missed his father just like he did?  Especially after all that Willy had put him- no, had put them all- through?</p><p>No.</p><p>After a moment, Ron shifted his weight from foot to foot. </p><p>“The wind was kind of loud, so did you hear me when I said-”</p><p>“Yeah,” Terry interrupted.  “I heard you.”  His knuckles grew white around the umbrella handle. </p><p>Ron sighed.  “Terry, I… I want to respect your boundaries, and I don't want to upset you, but...”  He trailed off before seeming to force himself to turn and look him in the eyes.  “If I did something that did end up upsetting you, I’d like you to tell me.”  A pause.  “Please.” </p><p>Ugh.  Terry could see he was trying.  He almost missed the days when it was so easy to feel angry at Ron whenever he tried to do anything fatherly.  To be fair, before the trip happened, Ron hadn’t tried to reach Terry in the way that he could understand, and it was a very easy thing to hate someone you didn’t know.</p><p>He let out a weak groan and leaned over, letting his shoulders slacken and head hang loose.  Terry risked a glance up at Ron’s expression.  It was almost blank, but he could see curls of concern in the way his black and brown peppered mustache twisted on his face.</p><p>“It’s just,” Terry started, “I don’t get it.”  He sighed.  “I mean, back in the forgotten realms, your dad was cruel and loud and awful.  He literally kidnapped me and you and everyone just to- to fuck with us.”  His voice cracked and he just waved his free hand around helplessly.  Huh, apparently he wasn't as over the 'ultimate STD’ as much as he’d thought.  “So, I’m sorry, but no.  I don’t think we come here for the same reason.  I mean, I have, like, a thousand reasons to miss my dad, but do you even have one?”</p><p>The moment Terry said those words, he saw Ron’s eyes widen, and immediately wanted to reach out, pluck them from the air, and shove them right back down his throat.  </p><p>“I’m so sorry.  I- ” he began, but Ron just looked away and Terry couldn't finish his sentence.  The rain bore down relentlessly onto the umbrella.</p><p>“You’re right, you know.”  Ron said quietly.  “Willy was awful, even before going all crazy and magic-y.”  The corner of his mustache twitched.  “You’re, uh, a little bit late to the halloween party on that one, kiddo… I figured it out a while ago.”</p><p>He laughed a little, then seemed to zone out into the foggy distance.</p><p>“I guess what I haven’t quite figured out yet is how to stop missing him.  You said that you had a thousand reasons to miss your dad?”  He asked in a raspy voice.  “I don’t have anywhere close that many, but I did have one:  He was there.”  Ron looked down at the grave.  “I think that love...it isn't something you have control over, not really.  It just shows up when you spend enough time with something, or with someone.”</p><p>Terry felt himself slowly unfold as he listened.  He was watching Ron now, who still stared at the grave, with open confusion.</p><p>“I didn't mean to say that your dad’s anything like mine, it's just…”  He let out a short huff through his nose.  “I think kids can’t not love their parents- not because their parents always deserve that love,” Ron added, glancing up at Terry.  “But,” he looked back down, “when you’re born, someone has to take care of you."</p><p>He stopped for a moment, and Terry swore he'd never heard the rain pour so loudly ever before in his life.</p><p>“Sometimes," Ron continued, "that person who takes care of you will be gentle and patient.  They’ll read you stories, and let you into their bed during thunderstorms, and play nonsensical games where they pretend to be a fairy and steal your teeth."  His grip on the flowers tightened.  "Sometimes that person- they won't be like that.  They’ll take care of you simply because it’d take too much effort to do anything else.</p><p>“They may tell you that they're doing it for your own good,” his eyes narrowed, “but over time, you begin to realize he’s really just doing it because he likes the fact that you can't stop him.”</p><p>Ron paused.  “But he’ll still raise you.”  </p><p>He let out a wheeze and Terry couldn’t decide if it was supposed to be a laugh or a sob.  Maybe a bit of both.</p><p>“I guess what I mean is, I don't come here to wish my dad wasn't dead.  I'm glad he is.  It's just…”  Ron smiled a little and turned back to look up at Terry.  “I’m sorry if- that,” Ron corrected, “I compared my father to yours.  If Terry Sr. had been my dad, I think I would have been pretty mad at me too.”</p><p>Terry froze, met his gaze for a moment, then jerked his head toward the distant hills.  He rubbed his sweatshirt sleeve across his face.  Stupid broken umbrella.  He’d have to tell his mom to get a new one soon.  This one had too many holes.</p><p>“It’s fine...guess that they're both dads.”  Terry mumbled.  He cleared his throat and tried to look back at his stepdad.  “Just one thing though,” he said, trying his best to casually motion to the bouquet.  “What’s with..?”</p><p>“These?”  Ron asked, finishing his sentence.  It was barely audible, but Terry heard him let out a little of that chipmunk in a chainsaw chuckle.  “I brought them for Willy.”  </p><p>Terry tried (and failed) to picture Willy within a ten foot radius of a flower shop.  Didn’t seem very manly.  “Huh,” he heard himself distantly comment.  “He didn’t strike me as the flower type.”</p><p>Ron shifted, and Terry could have sworn that he saw white flashing beneath black and brown. </p><p>“He wasn’t.  One time a neighbor brought some pansies over from his garden as a gift,”  Ron’s mustache pulled back a little more.  “I actually thought that he was having an allergic reaction.”</p><p>Terry nodded along, putting his hand to his chin and squinting.  “It'd be really unfortunate then if some fell into this vase on his grave then, huh?”  He pulled one of the flowers out and dropped it into the vase.  “Oops.”</p><p>Following suit, Ron knelt down on the wet concrete and began to take the flowers out one by one and place them in the vase.  As his son chimed in every once in a while to remark how terrible it was that the flowers kept slipping out of his hands, the water that ran through Westrock rained down around the Stampler family.</p>
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